The racing thoughts that just won’t stop, are fed by little scraps of bad decisions.
Self-talk: words convincing myself that what I do is my right, and that no one else matters. Or worse, that it was well received.
The aftermath lasts for days. Wishing for a time-machine, or a large eraser. Paranoia that is filled with second guessing.
Torture that never really hurt anyone, but could cut deeply.
What a delicious distraction to the old voices. So much louder in my adult voice – my old habits that die hard – the small cries have been drowned by incoherent drunken ramblings.
Every moment of every day, second by second, I listen and try to decipher. The more I try to make it make sense, the more lost and insecure I feel.